


The Red Triangle

by basedHermes



Category: The Neon Demon (2016), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, BAMF! Victor, BAMF! Yuuri, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Confident Katsuki Yuuri, Crimes & Criminals, Dark, Eros Katsuki Yuuri, F/F, M/M, Manipulation, Married Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Narcissism, Necrophilia, Russian Mafia, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Supermodel!Chris, Supermodel!JJ, Tragedy, Yakuza
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10133981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basedHermes/pseuds/basedHermes
Summary: "Beauty isn't everything. It's the only thing."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by the 2016 movie entitled The Neon Demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super Important Stuff:  
> \- The aged up people in this fic are Yuri(o); who is 18, Yuuri who is 24, and Viktor who is 28. Yefrem, Georgi, and Chris are 25, Otabek and JJ are 19, Phichit and Seung Gil Lee are 20, Mila is also 18, and Sara is 22.  
> \- Everyone has different heights; this is, after all, a Model AU combined with a Mafia AU. Please take note: Mila and Sara are 5'8, Yuri(o) and Otabek are 5'10, Phichit and Yuuri are 5'11, Seung Gil Lee is 6'0, JJ is 6'1, Viktor, Georgi, and Chris are 6'2.  
> \- I have no beta and I'm a busy STEM student; I'm sorry for keeping you all waiting.  
> \- Kudos and comments make me smile.

 

_Percorso, St. Petersburg – Russia_

_December_

A mobile goes off with notes slow and soft.

Yuri's eyes flick up to Mila's face.

"Ah," - Mila looks down momentarily. She shoots the boy an apologetic look, putting her spoon down and standing to answer the call. "Hold on, Yuratchka."

Yuri watches as she walks away while fishing for her phone in her Mario Buccellati evening bag. He eyes her form up and down, stopping at the gentle sway of her oxford blue dress. A waiter strides by to collect Mila's finished plates.

Yuri takes the last bite of his risotto before handing the cutlery and plates to the same waiter. He then attends to his forgotten homework.

Procuring a cream paper from his jacket, he also lays out a small flipbook of notes and a Montblanc. Yuri proceeds to alternate between solving for standard errors, referring to z-scores, and sketching out a few normal distribution curves according to the questions in smudged ink.

Then suddenly, a bright flash.

Yuri stands fast, almost angry.

In front of him is man of the same height, - he's wearing a black turtleneck under a slim, matching, black suit. His face is obscured behind a camera; a DSLR, - held by a pair of fingerless-gloved hands. Yuri walks forward.

"Do you know who _I_ am? I---"

Yuri glances up and sees that his hair is of a familiar umber-brown: a light, messy quiff and undercut.

The man brings the camera down to his chest, letting it hang on his neck by its strap. _"Dobriy vecher."_

"Beka!" - Yuri greets. His icy glare turns into what of bright and loving adoration. 

Otabek scoops his neck with one arm, pulling him down slightly. He kisses the top of his head. "Hello, you."

Yuri enthusiastically returns the kiss on his boyfriend's lips. "Sit, sit," - the younger boy gestures to Mila's emptied seat as he returns to his own. He pushes his homework away and leans forward. "You didn't tell me you were coming to Russia!" - Yuri beamed in a shouting whisper.

"Sit properly, _detka_ ," - Otabek chuckles softly, unwinding his camera and removing the leather that concealed his hands. "Surprise, then. And..." - the Kazakh reaches for his pocket, offering a small, blue box.

Yuri takes it gingerly, smiling as he does. He opens the box and gasps. He lifts the deep, gray-blue diamond into the light of the chandelier above.

_It is strangely similar to..._

_Wait..._

_Could this be...?_

"I-Isn't this..."

 _"The Wittelsbach-Graff," -_ Otabek continued for him.

"How the _fuck_ did you get your hands on _this_?" - Yuri shook, slipping the ring-made gem onto the middle finger of his left hand. Otabek signals a waiter with a drinking gesture.

"Hamad and Tamim owe me a few favours," - the older boy shrugged, taking the flute of champagne from the waiter's hand.

Yuri only nodded. He knew of the powerful Altin Clan's various jobs; Otabek just had to name what he wanted.

"It's beautiful," - the younger boy cooed, turning his hand.

"No."

Yuri tilts his head, questioning.

"I find that its beauty comes second to its wearer," - the photographer-DJ winked as he downed his drink.

There is a playful kick under the table, to which Otabek chuckles. Yuri blushes, tucking back a lock of his sunflower blonde hair.

Otabek straightens his Westmancott and walks over to Yuri, taking and loading his camera. "See, beautiful."

Yuri looks at the picture taken earlier. Otabek periodically zooms at the picture's different spots.

The Russian's hair stops a centimetre above his shoulders: smooth, straight, golden; slicked back and tucked neatly behind his ears. His complexion is pale and smooth like fine snow under the glinting gold pieces of the chandelier's light. His perfectly-trimmed brows are in a line of concentration over long, thick lashes on lidded, basil-olive eyes. He gulps as his lover zooms into his angular face that composed of a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a sharp jaw. His suit is midnight blue, bespoke Desmond Merrion, perfectly crisp and cut to his lean frame, - even while sitting. His fingers and nails, long and thin, clean and manicured-buffed around his pen and notebook. Once again, he forgets about homework.

Yuri sighs as he clicks the camera off. "I look fine, Beka."

"Fine?" - Otabek breathes. He kneels in front of Yuri, fingers curling under his lover's v-shaped chin. "You are _gorgeous_."

Yuri leans in, the two exchanging a short kiss. Once Otabek stands, he ruffles at Yuri's hair.

"Oi!"

"You should be a model."

Yuri Plisetsky, – _model_.

Sure thing.

He has actually considered it before, but maybe it was because he did not want to do homework anymore.

In the future, he would have to deal with a lot more paperwork as the _sovietnik_ beside his brother Yefrem, the upcoming _pakhan_.

Yuri did not like the mafia at all. It was too much to handle, – it was all he was expected to handle. 

He recalls one, significant incident.

 

/// 

 

It was a rainy night. Twelve-year-old Yuratchka grasped onto his mother's dress, fearing his father's shouts of rapid-fire Russian. It seems that the man only seethes through the telephone when he is dealing with assassins, the boy notes. Yuri looks up at his mother, whose eyes were wide, whose lips were set in a steady line. He looks back at his father. From what he can understand, a few of Plisetsky _boyevik_ had accidentally killed some members of the Nikiforov Family in a complex and devious rendezvous against another _Bratva_ family. The Nikiforovs are their closest friend and most-trusted ally. 

Suddenly, Yuri felt drops of something on his hair. He looks up once more. His mother is crying. "Mama, mama," - he reaches. Natasya bent down for her son, tears freely flowing down her beautiful face. _"Pozhaluysta, ne plach,"_  - he pleads softly, patting his mother's face gently. She could only give a broken smile as her son wipes her face with a lace handkerchief. _"Ona mertva, Yuratchka,"_ \- Natasya whispers. _"Yelizabetha ushla.."_

The Nikiforov pakhan's wife and her extended family were all exterminated. It was an intel disaster.

 

///

 

He needs to leave before he could ever question his morals. Maybe, just maybe, his father will let him go as he just reached his eighteenth last year. Although, he knows it won't be easy. 

The sitting boy blinks away the memory. "You'll help with my portfolio," - Yuri states, smiling up at the tanned-olive man.

"Of course," - Otabek confirms.

Then, they hear muted, rushing heels towards their table. The pair turned to look at a panting woman with a wavy, currant-red bob.

"Mila---, are you---" - Otabek holds her arm to keep her steady. 

She acknowledges the Kazakh with a glance before fixing her eyes on Yuri.

"Yuri," - Mila looks like she's about to cry.

 

* * *

 

“Your parents are dead.”

 

* * *

 

_Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, Moscow – Russia_

_December_

 

The Cathedral of Christ the Saviour was closed off for the private funeral of Natasya Turov and Dmitriy Plisetsky.

It was well-attended. Yuri recognized all of who came in: most of the bratva, relatives, friends, and some politicians, – each passing the conjoined coffins with tokens after they paid condolences and shared prayers with the Plisetsky brothers.

The brothers ordered Yakov Feltsman, Dmitriy's _obshchak_ , to deal with the more bothering inquiries.  

It was simply a car accident, anyway.

 

...

_"The brakes malfunctioned."_

_..._

_"They careened off a cliffside."_

_..._

_"Tsk,"_

_..._

_"This will be hard for the two. Please help them."_

_..._

_"Tell those mudak not to mess up."_

_..._

When Yefrem heard the one, rude comment, he turned and immediately fired his pocket tranquilizer at him.

 

When the last hour of the day came, Yuri receives a call from Otabek. "I'm sorry I couldn't visit. Please be careful."

"It's fine, Beka. You be careful too, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Yuri ends the call and pockets his mobile. The brothers continue standing in front of the coffins as they did the entire time.

After the burial tomorrow, Yefrem is to be appointed the new _pakhan_ , Yuri as the new _sovietnik_ , and Yakov to stay as the _obshchak_.

 

* * *

 

_Plisetsky Manor, St. Petersburg – Russia_

_December_

 

"Yefrem, I cannot do this," - Yuri groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please, Yuratchka. Just---," - Yefrem tried.

"No. _This is wrong_. What _we_ do is fucking _wrong_."

"Yuratchka, you _do_ know that _this_ is the _bratva_ ," - Yefrem glowered with an incredulous tone.

"I'm sorry, then," Yuri spits, standing up from across his brother. "Excuse me, _sorry?_ " Yefrem follows Yuri as he strides towards the exit of their father's study. "I'm sorry for being a fucking  _pussy._ "

"Yura---,"

"I don't even feel like a Plisetsky, Yefrem. Everyone in the bratva can take crime and strife like it's walking, _breathing._ Don't I embarrass you? For not being able to stomach all of the Mafia business bullshit, for being a disappointment, a failure, ---"

"Yuratchka, listen to yourself. You have to understand. We have our own family to uphold now. They are counting on us," - his brother begged. "I can't do this without you."

"I'm leaving, Yefrem."

"Yura, you have to think _this_ through! What of our family?" His older brother bites, "do you even fucking care?"

"Like how no one involved cares about the people and families they've scammed, hurt, and killed? Fucking sure, I'll _say_ I _do_ care."

As Yuri was about to storm out of the room, Yefrem grabbed his wrist. "Yuratchka, you're not thinking right now."

"I am thinking, and I _think_ this is _right_. You'll have one less problem to worry about. I want no part in this bullshit anymore. If I cannot stop these crimes, the next best thing is leaving." - with that, Yuri ran out, slamming the huge, mahogany double-doors shut. Outside their father's study, he presses his back against the wood. With heavy breaths, he sinks down to the heels of his polished-black brogues, perfect fingernails lightly scraping at the painful door embellishments behind him.

He knew that it wasn't easy getting away from the bratva as an ex-member now, but as long as Yefrem is the pakhan, he hoped to be fine.

 

* * *

 

_Altin Studio, Los Angeles; California – U.S.A_

_Late January_

 

The iconic city of Los Angeles is unmistakably thriving.

Though, in this room, it is quiet.

This room would be all-consuming if it weren't for the illumination of fluorescent, fuchsia lights that framed one whole wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

In the middle is a large, flat-glass platform: it is connected to a standing background board of silver backing and close-strung oriental patterns. There are two pieces of active, tube-lighting equipment on the right side of it, one standing and the other laid.

A couch, in a lighter shade of silver, is positioned in front of the background frame in the center; it drips with blood from the body lying on top of it.

 

Yuri Plisetsky is dead.

 

His eyes were still open, almost fully-dilated: black and hollow, staring off into the portion of the room in front of him.

A shame, that his last outfit was a short, patent-leather, admiral-blue dress. It was probably cheap.

_Snap._

The beautiful boy's blonde head was resting against one arm of the couch: hair done back in a French-braid bun.

The temples and upper cheeks were jeweled and glittered above a dusting of the hottest pink on the eyelids and cheekbones, the waterline was drawn with a stunning neon-blue, and the lashes were curled in rich, black mascara.

His lips hung ajar in the same hot pink, though almost threatening to drip in its glossy finish. 

_Snap._

A violent, but clean 360° slit was carved on his neck; drying blood had run down on it, pooling at his collarbone and down his right arm, hand, and couch. Another drop falls from the suspended limb. Otabek winces at his clean, untained legs; right situated on the floor, left bent on the couch, – both untouched by blood.

 

Oh, how did this happen.

 

_Snap._

_Snap._

_Snap._

 

Otabek lowers his camera, revealing his smirking face. He lifts a thumbs-up at Yuri's direction.

Yuri arises from the couch, stepping over the fake blood to cross to his lover. They kiss passionately. Otabek breaks the kiss first. "Watch the blood, Yura," - he smiled as he caressed his boyfriend's cheek. "I'm going to wash this off," - Yuri mumbled as he gestured all over his top half. Otabek nodded and made way.

 

* * *

 

Back in the make-up room, Yuri struggles to remove the blood. He sighs and looks at the mirror, catching the man whose eyes are glued to him.

Yuri and the man are just a few feet away, back-to-back and in front of their respective vanities. The other man is cleaning make-up brushes with a black towel.

 

Yuri decides to turn around completely and eye the other up and down. 

The man's skin is sun-kissed macchiato, his hair is a slightly long, messy bowl-cut of bible black above thick and clean eyebrows. His lashes are similarly long and thick over kind, gray eyes. The man's cheekbones, jaw, and nose were both high and sharp, although not as defined as Yuri's own.

He's hot. 

Yuri observes the man's black, cotton round-neck with the sleeves stopping at the top of his forearms. Yuri cleared his throat, continuing down to the tight-fitting, dark-gray jeans and yellow Balenciagas.

"Am I staring?" - the man interrupts.

"I am, too."

The man tittered at Yuri's response. "You have beautiful skin."

"Whatever," - to which the man smiles, unfazed. "I'm Phichit, by the way. Phichit Chulanont."

Yuri turns back around, uselessly scrubbing. He pauses, thinking to introduce himself as Yurio for some reason. "I'm Yurio."

"Yurio," - Phichit repeats. Yurio nodded in the mirror.

"You're not from here, aren't you?"

"Mhmm. Russia."

"I'm from Thailand." 

Yurio winced, not knowing how to continue, or not continue the conversation. Phichit notices this and continues for both of them. 

"Did you just get here then, Yurio?"

A curt nod.

"How did you know?"

"You've got that look."

No response from the Russian.

"The  _deer-in-the-headlights_ look," - clarified Phichit. Yurio could only purse his lips.

"It's _exactly_ what they want in the industry," - Phichit winks.

Yurio does not know what he means. He rolls his eyes and grabs another wet-wipe, rubbing at his arm.

"Here, let me help." Phichit walks over and Yurio turns around for him.

He picks at a wet-wipe, swiping it across Yurio's chest in one direction, a quick, effective motion. The Russian lightly shuffles at the proximity, noting that Phichit is an inch taller.

"Are you a model?" - Yurio asks as the Thai continues to clean his chest and arms. "Oh dear, no," - he laughs. "I do make-up." Yurio closes his eyes and sighs contentedly as someone else is doing a much better job at cleaning the horrid substance. "So, where are you staying?"

Yurio opens one eye. "My boyfriend owns a motel in Pasadena." Phichit nods. "What do your parents think about that?"

“What the fuck?” - Yurio accused, heavily-accented. 

Phichit hummed.

"What makes you say that?" - Yurio was gently pushed to turn around. Phichit wipes at some of the blood on his freckled back. 

"You're young, you came from Russia, – your parents should  _be_ in Russia, and now you're in a Photo Studio in Los Angeles, U.S. of A., staying in your boyfriend's _motel._ An outsider's view, yes, but still a view nonetheless."

"I'm eighteen. They don't care about me."

"Now, what makes _you_ say that?"

After a moment, Yurio's eyes drift away. “They're dead.” 

The Thai stops, expression dropping.

“I'm sorry.”

"It's fine," - Yurio admits, looking down at his nails.

Phichit's eyes are wary, continuing to clean. He sighs and drops the wipe to playfully punch Yurio's shoulder. The boy flinches.

"Let's go somewhere."

"Where?"

"A party," - Phichit says a-matter-of-factly as he plucks out one last wet-wipe to finish Yurio. 

"What kind of party?"

"A fun kind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes and Translations:  
> \- dobriy vecher --- good evening  
> \- detka --- babe  
> \- mudak --- asshole/"total fuck-up"  
> \- pozhaluysta, ne plach --- please, don't cry  
> \- ona mertva --- she's dead  
> \- Yelizabetha ushla --- Elizabeth is gone  
> \- The Wittelsbach-Graff Diamond --- a fancy, deep, greyish-blue diamond with a VS2 clarity. It had been part of both the Austrian and the Bavarian Crown jewels: it was cut down from 35.56C to 31.06C by the order of Laurence Graff to three diamond-cutters, effectively removing flaws after purchasing it for £16.4m. Its estimated value as of June 2011 is at $80m; it is currently owned by Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani.  
> \- pakhan -- boss/"godfather"  
> \- sovietnik -- councilor/"right-hand man"  
> \- obshchak -- security/"bookmaker"  
> \- boyevik(s) -- soldiers/main striking units/"warriors"  
> \- bratva -- a Russian Mafia group/"brotherhood"  
> \- places used in this chapter: Percorso is an Italian Restaurant (St. Petersburg, RU), Cathedral of Christ the Saviour is undoubtedly a cathedral (Moscow, RU), the Plisetsky Manor (St. Petersburg, RU) and The Altin Studio (L.A., C.A.: U.S.A.) is obviously made up  
> \- upper-class brands mentioned in this chapter: Mario Buccellati, William Westmancott, Desmond Merrion, Balenciaga  
> \- cover art for this story has been tweaked and edited by me. The original picture is by Kubo herself: it can be found on her twitter.
> 
> Other Notes and Disclaimers:  
> \- Yuri!!! on Ice is written/created/owned by  
> Mitsurō Kubo.  
> \- The Neon Demon (2016) is written/directed/produced/created/owned by Nicolas Winding Refn and others.  
> \- I don't profit off any of my works on AO3.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT.  
> First of all, I'm really sorry this took a year and a month to finish! I've been really busy as a high school STEM senior; though, I've already graduated last March 26, - that means I can write and update regular again! For at least three more months!
> 
> So, this is finally up! Yay!  
> I recommend you to re-read from Chapter One since it's been long.
> 
> Enjoy this one!
> 
> ///
> 
> Super Important Stuff:  
> \- The aged up people in this fic are Yuri(o); who is 18, Yuuri who is 24, and Viktor who is 28. Yefrem, Georgi, and Chris are 25, Otabek and JJ are 19, Phichit and Seung Gil Lee are 20, Mila is also 18, and Sara is 22.  
> \- Everyone has different heights; this is, after all, a Model AU combined with a Mafia AU. Please take note: Mila and Sara are 5'8, Yuri(o) and Otabek are 5'10, Phichit and Yuuri are 5'11, Seung Gil Lee is 6'0, JJ is 6'1, Viktor, Georgi, and Chris are 6'2.  
> \- I have no beta and I'm a busy college student; I'm sorry for keeping you all waiting.  
> \- Kudos and comments make me smile.

_Kaz Motel: Room 5 --- Pasadena, Los Angeles; California – U.S.A_

_Late January_

 

After showering, they climbed up their bed and dried each other off.

“Mhm, that feels nice,” – Yurio whispers in appreciation. Otabek continues to towel his locks with care. “You were good too,” – Otabek pauses to run a hand through his almost-dry quiff. Yurio hummed as he folded a damp hair towel in his lap, setting it aside on the bed sheets in front of him. “Beka,”

“Yura,” – they mumbled at the same time.

“It’s fine, you can go first,” – Yurio urges.            

“Would you like to come with me to a party? Tonight?” – smiled the Kazakh as he finished with Yurio’s hair. “Oh,” - Yurio snorted. “One of your make-up artists invited me to a party. Might it be the same one?” – he asked as he heads towards the bathroom.

“Oh! Was it Phichit?” – Otabek perks, following suit.

“Mhmm.”

“Then, yes. Same party.”

“I’m assuming you’re the DJ?” – Yurio spoke in between his toothbrush. In the mirror, Otabek confirms by grinning uncharacteristically. Foam dribbles down his chin. “Oh, shit.”

Yurio laughs.

“Apparently, the party is just an opening for a main event.”

“Hm?”

“The main event is a fashion show for Lilia Baranovskaya’s new line. I’ve been informed that she’s going for some futuristic-type shit.”

“Are you serious,” - Yurio gasps, almost choking on foaming paste.

“Yes.”

“As in, - _Lilia Baranovskaya_.”

“Yes, love.”

“ _The_ _Baranovskaya_?” – the younger boy emphasized. He’s gaping now. Otabek laughs against his brush.

“Oh. My. God?” – Yurio shrieks in disbelief. Otabek only laughs more, patting his boyfriend’s head as they finished rinsing.

He encircles an arm around the Russian’s waist. “Alright well, let’s get ready.”

 

* * *

 

Yurio decides to forego a proper suit for the party for he has never really been comfortable in them.

He settles to wear a black, cotton v-neck with matching, skin-tight, glossed-pvc pants. On the other side of the bathroom, Otabek pats down his white round-neck, worn jeans, and his prized, Mastermind Japan biker jacket. The Kazakh glances at his partner. “I think you should wear those Louboutin pumps tonight, detka,” - he recommends as he pulls on his black, Balenciaga knit-speeds. “Alright,” - Yurio agrees, walking to the closet to retrieve the heels.

Otabek comes up from behind him, holding Yurio’s Versace tiger-print short coat for him to tug on.

The younger boy thanks his boyfriend, steps into the heels, and topped off his outfit with the Wittelsbach-Graff on a neck chain.

Yurio kisses Otabek’s cheek as they locked up their room for the night. “Got your phone and wallet?” - Otabek asks, nudging him playfully. Yurio giggles, nodding and asking the same question afterwards, to which Otabek nods.

“I hope you remember our cues. Don’t worry about me not being able to see them; I’ll have a camera on you.”

“Of course, Beka,” – Yurio answers. He gathers his hair to fix it in a half-tie back style. “Tug on a lock of hair if things are fishy, swipe on the tip of the nose if things are interesting, left hand on hip if I’m asked to a room and I need security, and right hand on hip if I’m comfy enough to be let alone,” the Russian provides, facing up with tightly closed eyes in a mocking of trying to recall their agreed cues.

“Good boy,” – Otabek praises as they slide into the Kazakh’s gunmetal Maserati Quattroporte. “We’ll part in the parking lot. Text me when you’re done with Phichit and whoever you might run into?”

“Mhmm.”

 

* * *

 

Once they step out of the elevator, Phichit holds Yurio’s hand as they walk through the vivid blue-and-violet-lighted venue of a checkered, balconied floor. The place was dark, but Yurio knows genuine marble when he sees it. The venue was of marble; top to bottom.

As they pass, Yurio couldn’t help but stare at the individuals present; one could tell that every person here wore the most expensive brands and _people_. They were all conversing in groups with drinks in hand. It was absolutely fascinating.

But of course, he has been to similar parties before; but with this particular one, Yurio feels off. He shivers, feeling an odd vibe that this party might finally turn his life around since moving to Pasedena.

The party was already on full force when they arrived: the distractions of the periodically flashing lights, the pulsing sensuality of club music, the bar to the side, the catered food aisle behind it, and a giant Jacuzzi. If the venue was bare, one can admire the beauty of its big, scattered columns, the fine work of the barriers on the balconied side, and the lifelike, masterful statues.

Before he knew it, he and Phichit are leaning on one of the many barriers, standing in front of two models in slim suits.

“Good evening, sluts. This is Yurio, from Russia.” – This earns a few snickers from the models.

“Hey,” – greeted the slightly-tanned one in a dark blue suit. He has flute of champagne in hand. “Yurio,” – Phichit continues, “this is Christophe Giacometti, from Switzerland.”

“H-Hi.” _Damn it._ _This isn’t very you,_ \- Yurio thought to himself.

“Chris, please,” – he smiled, offering his free hand. The Russian shakes it nervously.

He’s lean and indeed handsome. Chris is the taller of the two by an inch. He has plump, glossed lips and stubbled facial hair in the form of a moustache and goatee on an oblong jaw. The man’s hair is two-toned of blonde and brown, cut very short with small fringes and an undercut. Yurio notes that his eyebrows are arched almost condescendingly, - although, it’s hard to tell if they were shaped like so, or emoted. His eyes are half-lidded on long, blonde lashes over hazel irises. Chris’ cheekbones are light and soft, which contrasts to his nose that is a little too long but nicely, slightly upturned.

He releases Yurio’s hand first. “I _love_ Russians,” – Chris leered.

Yurio flushed hotly, looking to Phichit. The Thai shrugged, giggling.

“And this is Jean-Jacques Leroy, from Canada,” – he gestures to the man in a dark red suit.

Although clear of facial hair, Jean-Jacques is the more masculine-looking of the two; probably because of his sharp, square jaw line, and his shorter, uncurled lashes. The Canadian steps forward into Yurio’s space, appearing a few inches shorter due to the Russian’s pumps.

Once the lights flashed white for a few seconds, Yurio sees that his skin is only a few shades lighter than Chris’. His build is a tad more bulked with muscle, but still lean. JJ shifted his stance.

“H-H-Hello,” – Yurio stuttered more. _DAMN IT,_ \- he thought again.

“Hello, _gorgeous_. You can call me JJ,” – he winks, taking Yurio’s hand and intending to pull it forward for a kiss instead of the casual handshake. Phichit steps in and reaches for Yurio’s hand back when he is too stunned to react. “Watch it, Leroy,” – Phichit laughs. “He’s taken.”

Yurio discreetly swipes at the tip of his nose to signal Otabek about the current happenings. “I see. Apologies,” – JJ smiles as he closes his eyes, bowing slightly, and stepping back.

JJ has soot-black, curtained hair over an almost fully-shaved undercut. He has thick, medium-arched eyebrows and confident, dark-blue eyes. JJ’s nose resembles that of Otabek’s; a Grecian’s nose that is long, sharp, and down-facing. With no prominent cheekbones, his face is still relatively angular. Lastly, the man has thin lips which only seemed to accommodate smirks.

Yurio looks down, blushing more. JJ fits right into Yurio’s type of men.

“A shy one,” – Chris comments in a whisper only JJ could hear.  

“Anyway, who are you wearing?” - Phichit asks in a kittenish manner.

“Brioni shirts, Zegna suits, and Bostonian shoes,” – JJ answers for both.

Phichit opens his mouth to speak, - “coincidence?”

“No, not at all,” – Chris laughs. “Though; I’ve got a Hermès etriviere here, and his is Stefano Ricci,” – Chris continues as he points at his and JJ’s belts respectively. “And then this is Franck Muller, and that is a Rolex,” – JJ remarks while they both lift up the watches on their wrists.  

As Phichit starts conversing with the two models like some sort of fashion journalist, Yurio’s attention wanders to wherever they could reach. Otabek should be somewhere in front. He pretends to nod along to the music as he fiddles with his fingers.

Yurio shifts against the barrier, turning to look at the neon-blue lighting of giant, intricate chandeliers that were lined to hang outside. He looks over the relatively short distance to the adjacent side of the same, curving venue and building.

Oh.

A couple of very pale men are staring at him; a taller man in light hair and a shorter man in dark hair. Then, they clink their wine glasses against each other’s as they continue watching Yurio.

Yurio has a feeling that they’ve been staring at him since he’s entered the party. He turns around almost immediately.

Suddenly, the main lights were activated. The venue and attendants were washed with their real colours, untinted by the harsh, solid, blue-violet light. People were unfazed and music continued to play.

They continued to stare. At least that’s what Yurio _feels_.

Yurio is sure many minutes passed since he found out about the two men staring his way. The boy looks around the venue with fast eyes. But then, -

“Hey,” – Chris interjects. This makes Yurio turn to face him.

Chris points to the other side of the venue, where the staring men are standing. “Isn’t that Viktor and Yuuri?”

Yurio flinches. _Another Yuri?_

Phichit turns to look. “Oh! How lovely! Let’s call them over.”

The Thai leans over the balcony. “Hey! Come join us!” – Phichit shouts over the party music.

The taller man lowers his head slightly, raising his glass to Phichit. He takes the shorter man by the waist as they walk to where they are.

Phichit modestly jumps up and down in excitement to meet whoever they were. Chris chuckles deeply as he empties his flute while JJ simpers beside him.

Meanwhile, over the duration of this.. Viktor and Yuuri.. walking towards them, Yurio has received three, hot-cold shivers down his spine.

And then suddenly, he’s frozen in place as he watches the men walk.

He can feel the flush of warmth flowing through his body.

He could easily state that these two were the handsomest men he’s ever met in his eighteen years, or likely, the handsomest men he’s ever going to meet in his entire lifetime.

Phichit dashes to Yurio’s side, both watching Viktor and Yuuri cross the crowd like the partition of the Red Sea.

“Yurio,” – Phichit leans in. “Besides you, these two are the only people I know who have not received any form of cosmetic surgery; yet, _look_ at _them_ ,” – the Thai whispers swiftly. “Wait, what?” – Yurio whispers back, more frantic as the pair was closing their distance.

“They’re my very close friends; I do wish they would consider modelling so I could see them more often.”

“Are you saying they’re _not_ in the modelling industry?” - Yurio whispers in disbelief, eyes still locked on the two men approaching.

“That’s what I thought at first.”

“Are they a couple?” – the Russian asks curiously.

“Yes. In fact, they’re already married,” – Phichit giggles.

Finally, the two, lean-svelte figures stop firmly in front of their small group.

Yurio gasped softly.

The light-haired man’s locks matched his pale, alabaster skin; snowy, fair, and clear in natural matte. He’s got a negligibly mature hairline as compared to the other man’s short, narrow forehead. The dark-haired man’s tone on the other hand is warm porcelain, similarly clear, fair, and with a glowing, dewy complexion that opposes the other. Their skin looks like glass; flawlessly smooth, even, level, and undisturbed. It makes Yurio wonder if they have a ridiculous routine, or if it is easy and effortless as to just waking up, showering, and going to parties.

Though both men are also extremely contoured in their high, supremely-sharp, and angular features. The pair shared thin lips and diamond-square jaw lines alongside prominent, razor-like cheekbones. The light-haired man has a slim, cuttingly fine, and distinctly foreign aquiline nose, while the dark-haired man has a faultlessly straight, perfectly-elevated bridge with a very slight celestial tip. It is rare to see people with noses so highly-pronounced and seemingly delicate with a perfect fit to their faces. They look absolutely _godly_ ; standing next to them makes Yurio’s cheekbones look nonexistent and his nose look short and snub.

The platinum blonde has a growing undercut below his medium-long, curtained hair that is parted on the far-right side. The right division of his hairstyle is slicked backwards to the side of his head which emphasizes the gravity-defying, left-sided bangs that covers one of his cold, striking, ice-blue eyes that are deep-set in shape. His brows are slim and silvery, while his lashes are snowy and neat in contrast to his semi-evident dark circles.

He wears a crisp, white dress shirt, and an all-black ensemble of a double-breasted suit, long coat, and shiny oxford loakes.

The shorter man of ink-black, slicked back hair at Viktor’s side is clearly asian with such shockingly caucasian features. His brows are straight-shaped over thick, loose-curled lashes and dark brown eyes that seem to be the only asian feature about him; oriental, long monolids.

He wears a black, peak-lapelled blazer that is rolled up to his elbows; it matches his black boat shorts and loafers. Under his jacket is a white dress shirt with the first two buttons undone; Yurio tries _really_ hard not to stare at his toned neck and collarbones.

“This is Yurio, from Russia,” – Phichit introduces, shortly glancing at the platinum blonde.

He extends the hand free of the wine glass; “Viktor. Just Viktor,” – he drawls, but not lazy. His accent screams home. “Dobriy vecher. _Priyatno poznakomit’sya._ ”

Yurio takes it, curtly shaking it once as he hopes the warmth of his body does not radiate to Viktor’s. “Dobriy vecher. _Podobno._ ”

He looks _awfully_ familiar.

“Is that _the_ Wittelsbach diamond?” – Viktor asks in his deeply-accented, honeyed baritone. _Christ._

“Yes it is, actually. I’m surprised you noticed. It was gift from my boyfriend,” – Yurio gently carries the ring-made gem on his neck chain. He inserts a finger into it and lifts his hand up to give it a few turns, light catching on it repeatedly.

“It looks magnificent.”

The younger Russian tries to display confidence instead of clearly being flustered. He smiles and gives a short nod in thanks. Yurio then tucks both hands into the slim pockets of his pants. The tension rises as he is suddenly aware of the pain when in heels.

Yurio then looks to the asian man; he decides to extend his hand first, only to be met with the other’s at the same time. The latter man smirks. _Dear lord._

“Yuuri,” – he greets. “Dobriy vecher. _Dobro pozhalovat’na vecherinku._ ”

 _That was completely perfect Russian._ It was Yurio’s turn to smirk. Although he intends to hide the hot shiver, he really wants to drop to his knees and suck both of them off. Right here, right now. 

They let go. Yurio gulps discreetly.  

“The diamond suits you very well,” – Yuuri comments in a thick, asian accent. He faintly lifts his wine glass to Yurio.

“Thank you.”

Viktor’s free hand gently returns to hold Yuuri at his side. They walk closer to stop in front of Yurio, each kissing both of his cheeks. Yurio falters a little before kissing them back on theirs.

“Phichit, Chris, JJ,” – the couple announces as they step backward and acknowledge the others. “Good evening.”

“Glad to see both of you here tonight. You’re absolutely my favourite sweethearts,” – Chris cheers while exchanging kisses.

“Viktor, Yuuri. Magnificently dashing, as per usual,” – JJ smiles and pats them in between the kisses.

“Hold on, hold on,” – Phichit laughs, giving them one-armed hugs with the kisses. “Can we loosen up with the formalities, please? This is far from a ceremonial party.”

“Agreed,” – Yuuri says, swirling his wine before sipping it promptly.

“Shall move to a private room?” – JJ proposes.

They find themselves in agreement. Yurio places a right hand on his hip, signalling for the camera that Otabek put on him to cease its monitoring of his interactions tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes and Translations:  
> \- detka --- babe  
> \- dobriy vecher --- good evening  
> \- priyatno poznakomit’sya --- nice to meet you  
> \- podobno --- likewise  
> \- dobro pozhalovat’na vecherinku --- welcome to the party  
> \- places used in this chapter: Kaz Motel (Pasadena, California) was made up in place of the motel Jesse stayed in, some upper-class club (L.A., California)  
> \- upper-class brands mentioned in this chapter: Mastermind Japan, Christian Louboutin, Balenciaga, Versace, Brioni, Ermenegildo Zegna, Clark's Bostonians, Hermès, Stefano Ricci, Franck Muller, Rolex


End file.
